This Lethal Game
by DobbyIsADinosaur
Summary: Harry is struggling with the burdens of being, well, Harry Potter. Included among these burdens is his unspoken love for Neville who has found himself the confused participant in a relationship with Hermione who is becoming increasingly consumed with worry for her parents and the fate of the Muggle world. Along the way, Sir Gawain appears in dreams to offer fresh perspectives.
1. Chapter 1

**This Lethal Game**

But mind your mood, Gawain,

lest dread make you delay,

or lose this lethal game

you've promised you will play.

(_Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ 487-90, translated by Simon Armitage)

**Chapter One**

** "fine folk with their futures before them"**

It was a sunny but windy day on the grounds of Hogwarts, and they had to raise their voices in order to be heard. The topic of conversation was one which had become increasingly frequent, though each were not equally invested—it was nostalgia for the world of the Muggles and all that had been left behind by two of the party. Hermione, obviously, was the most heavily invested, having left both her parents, all of her friends, and a great deal of worldly success behind when she had received her letter five years ago. Ron was definitely not invested as he had been raised from birth in the full Wizard family to which he rightfully belonged in every sense, but he had been raised around Muggle "artifacts" and this, combined with his rapidly growing admiration for Hermione, let him play a varyingly enthusiastic and abashedly inquisitive role in the talk.

Harry was, more often than not, the least talkative member of the group during these conversations. Though he, like Hermione, had been raised firmly within the Muggle world, he was able to remember few things about it with any degree of fondness, and even those few things he did miss—Muggle history of epic wars stretching across centuries of time, the tired but fulfilling feeling of having completed a task of manual labor without the use of magic to lighten the load, the simple satisfaction of being able to eat a chocolate without double checking against the possibility of enchantments—for the most part, Harry was comfortable describing himself as 300% happier on the most common of days at Hogwarts than he had ever been, even during the greatest of moments, while living at 4 Privit Drive with the Dursleys, decidedly Muggle in every way.

Hermione's excitement at the current object of nostalgia—Arthurian legend—caused her voice to naturally lilt above the growling whooshes of the wind all about them. "Oh, and Guinevere!" she exclaimed now; "There simply isn't anyone like her in the history books here!"

Harry, who was walking a few steps ahead of Ron and Hermione, looked briefly over his shoulder to acknowledge her words and noted well the flush—not simply an effect of the breeze or the sun—that sprawled across her face, and the laughter that threatened at the edge of her lips. Her excitement about these Muggle memories lit up her whole being like a mad-woman's, and even Harry had to admit that there was something particularly appealing about Hermione when she was like this. It was clear that Ron noticed this, too, though he seemed to feel the effects much more strongly than Harry ever had. His face, too, was red, though that was common enough with Ron. His green eyes were twinkling more than normal; the effect contrasted strikingly with the solemnness of his features as he focused intently on each word and glance issuing from Hermione as she continued on and on in praise of the Queen Guinevere of whom he had never before even heard and with whom Harry was only glancingly familiar.

Harry turned back around to watch where he was going and because he was wary of it seeming as though he were staring. Only last week, Ron had pulled him aside after breakfast in the Great Hall to question him about whether or not he had any feelings for Hermione and whether she had ever expressed any feelings for him. Though Harry had tried desperately to deflect the questions with warnings about their being late to Transfiguration (this tardiness had, indeed, transpired leading to an extra foot being added on to the length of their essays on the difficulties of transfiguring photographs into completely stationary objects), Ron would not be put off. Now, somehow, on top of everything else Harry found himself fretting about for most of his waking hours, and several sleeping ones as well, Harry worried that his friendship with Ron was at risk of sloughing off because Ron might perceive a romantic attachment between Harry and Hermione when such an idea could not be further from the true state of affairs.

'And what is the true state of affairs?' Harry mused to himself as he walked on, only half-listening as Ron posed to Hermione several questions at once about the ideas of chivalry and knighthood and the concept of historical fiction as a past-time that could amuse anyone for more than a few minutes. "It's been amusing you for over a quarter of an hour, now!" she chided him in response to this last query, laughing out loud.

'I don't like Hermione as anything more than the best friend I've got after Ron. And I need them both—they must realize how much I need them. I need them too much to ever _actually_ love either of them. Which is terrible...'

Lost in this horrifying train of thought, Harry tripped over a pack of enchanted playing cards someone had left on the lawn. "It's too terrible to actually be true!" he blurted out as the bodies of the Quidditch players pictured on the cards rose up to levitate in the air around the cards his toe had scattered into a messy circle in the grass.

"Five points!"

"There's the snitch!"

"Beware of that Bludger!"

The voices of the internationally famous Quidditch players rose faintly from the ground in response to his outburst while behind him Ron and Hermione stood silent, staring curiously at him. It wasn't as though he hadn't been saying strange things lately, or even saying strange things that oftener than he had practically from the day they first met him. They'd both thought that he'd been following along with their conversation, though, and they had been too engrossed in their own parts in the talk to notice that it had been quite a while since he'd actually contributed more than a nod or a smile. So, they thought he was responding to their debate over the true nature of Sir Gawain's character, and now they waited to hear his explanation as to why an interpretation of Sir Gawain as noble though flawed was too terrible to actually be true.

Harry blushed. "I reckon we should bring those in, see if we can find their owner, eh?" he said.

Still looking curious, more curious even than before, Hermione and Ron nodded and crouched down to help him pick up the playing cards and shove them back into their case.

"Oh shut up," muttered Ron to one particularly enthusiastic Quidditch team captain who refused to stop roaring for a rematch even after the lid of the case come down over his face.

"What's terrible?" Hermione asked. They returned to their casual pace, all three of them in a line now as Ron and Hermione waited to hear more from Harry. A particularly strong gust of wind shuttled the handful of puffy white clouds in front of the sun and the view of the grounds became temporarily overcast.

'Pathetic fallacy," Harry thought with a tinge of anxiety. 'That's something I remember from Muggle school. So useful.'

"I was just thinking about something else," he finally said in reply to Hermione's question. "Sorry; I just can't seem to care about literature today."

Hermione nodded and gave Ron a glance of significance out of the corner of her eye. Harry would have missed it if he hadn't deliberately forced himself to maintain eye contact with her to avoid the appearance of insincerity in his response. Now he just tried to ignore the implications of that side glance, telling himself that it was a marker of the increased mutual affection between his two friends and nothing more. He allowed himself to speed up a bit, bringing him back to his former place a few feet in front of Hermione and Ron. The tricks failed to work this time, however.

"Do you not care because of what's happened with Sirius? Or Cedric?" Hermione asked from behind him, purposefully raising her voice over the wind now because all excitement and genuine cheer seemed instantly gone from her. The feelings of only seconds before had been replaced by a seriousness and almost maternal outpouring of care and concern. 'Weird to think of Hermione as maternal,' he thought, momentarily overwhelmed with embarrassment as he realized this source and goal of those feelings was him and his inexplicably strange behavior of late.

The silence grew awkward. "Or...or...because of anything else, Harry? I know—_we_ know—there's been so much lately, so much terribleness..."

Knowing he was being cruel, unnecessarily so, Harry looked back over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. "I'm fine," he said shortly. "I can't even remember what I was thinking about, but I expect it had more to do with how awful some Quidditch team did recently than with stuff that happened over a year ago."

Hermione's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded and offered him a careful smile. 'I'm horrible,' Harry thought.

"That stuff with Sirius didn't happen over a year ago, mate. I'm just saying."

'Shut up, Ron,' Harry thought. He made no reply.

For another ten minutes the three of them continued to meander around the grounds. The clouds passed with another helpful blow of the wind, and the air seemed light and full of spring promise again, but there was no more conversation, not even any pleasantries or idle chatter about dinner or homework. Harry knew the silence and the hard feelings which seemed to have gripped the group were entirely his fault, and he did feel bad. Horrible. Terrible. Ron was caught fast and tight in the hold of his first fully recognized crush, and Harry had ruined what had been a good exercise in the testing of the potential for Hermione to return those feelings. Hermione, meanwhile, whatever her feelings for Ron (and these feelings were indeed a mystery to all of them), had been homesick for ages, consumed in worry for her parents as the future for Muggles became increasingly entwined with the future of Lord Voldemort and his nefarious and oblique plans, and Harry had likewise ruined her chance to vent these feelings and experience some relief from them.

'Well at least they know what their feelings are,' he thought. 'I've no idea what I feel about anything at all, except that I need Ron and I need Hermione and every day I'm pushing them further away and making them want less and less to be needed by me. Not that it was ever such a great position I've put them in.'

In the back of his mind, he knew there were other feelings working themselves out, and if he had tried hard enough he likely could have consciously recognized them then, too. He didn't particularly want to try hard, though, not then, not when he had so much else to struggle with. Sirius was trapped in Snape's snares, half the school hated him because they blamed him for poor handsome, innocent, talented, brilliant Cedric Diggory's death in the Tri-Wizard tournament last year, Voldemort was on the loose... Now was not a time for feelings. Now was a time for plans for the future, strategic assessments of the past, carefulness and guardedness in the present.

At the same time, it was so much easier to just walk and walk and walk, to loose oneself in the feeling of late March winds across one's face, the sounds of one's friends heady in hopefully blossoming love, the promise of a trip to Hogsmeade in just two days, and, very likely, a fine rabbit stew for dinner tonight. Harry paused in his walk and turned to face Ron and Hermione whose faces still bore the traces of solemn composure they'd donned at his previous outburst.

"Who's looking forward to Zonko's this weekend?" he asked with forced cheer. Ron, ever eager for normalcy, grinned broadly and immediately took up the notion with a relieved vigor. Hermione was mostly silent, though she smiled and nodded in all the right places; her eyes darted between the two boys as all three of them turned their feet back toward the castle. The grounds were emptying in anticipation of dinner time. Harry strained but was able to keep up the conversation until they had seated themselves at the Gryffindor table and the distractions of food and other members of their house with stories of their own days allowed him to lapse into silence without anyone noticing.


	2. Chapter 2

Here is chapter two of _This Lethal Game_ which will, I imagine, have several more chapters following this one. The title of this story, and the titles of each chapter, come straight from _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_, so I can take no credit for those. I also can't take credit for the characters, etc. which I probably should have mentioned at the beginning of chapter one. But you should know that already, so it's fine.

**Chapter Two**

** the tallest of tales, yet one ringing with truth**

Late that same night, Harry found himself unable to sleep. Sleep had been a struggle nearly since his arrival at Hogwarts which had brought the beginning of so many harrowing adventures, but tonight was different because as Harry felt entirely culpable for the sensations which swirled through him and keep his mind from resting peacefully. His behavior this afternoon had been inexcusable, as were the thoughts that had prompted it. Of course he loved Ron and Hermione: they were among the people he counted as family given his lack of actual family. He would have loved them and felt them to be kin even if he had a plethora of flesh and blood relatives living. In the peaceful solitude of his bed at two o'clock in the morning, he could feel this to be so, could recognize these feelings as legitimate and true. 'So why can't I during the daytime? Why can't I when they're actually in front of me?' he thought, rolling over in his sheets for the hundreth time that night.

Through the curtains around his bed he could see the slants of moonlight and shadows formed by the plate glass on the windows. It was nearly a full moon, which meant Professor Lupin would soon be in the Shrieking Shack. Maybe he would even come a day or two early so that Harry could see him during the Hogsmeade trip this weekend. It had been a while since they'd had time to chat, and letters from Lupin had been coming increasingly seldomly as work for the DA kept Lupin rushing here and there across the continent except during full moon times which typically left him too exhausted to eat let along pick up a quill and write the sort of lengthy, detailed letter full of consolation and information that Harry longed for so much these days.

Contemplating the exhaustion that Lupin was likely experiencing at that very moment—for surely he would not yet be in bed whether he were traveling to Hogsmeade or engaged in some sort of undercover operation for the DA with Voldemort's followers—caused Harry further guilt for the way he was wasting his time and energy, lolling about in bed when he could be studying or, more importantly, engaging in his own scheming. If he wasn't going to be well rested tomorrow anyway (when was the last morning he had awoken refreshed?) he might as well do something of significance or, if that was beyond his abilities right now, at least productive within some arena.

Quietly, so as not to wake the others, Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, intending to creep through the dormitory and return to the stack of textbooks and parchments he'd left on an end table in the common room only two hours before. Homework did not sound fun or, given recent events, at all significant, but nevertheless it needed to be done, and there was that extra foot on the Transfiguration essay, due on Friday right before the Hogsmeade trip would begin, to consider. A barely audible sigh escaped Harry's lips as he thought of the essay and the awkward conversation which he still failed to fully understand which had occasioned the increased length requirement.

'Why is my handwriting so damn small?' he idly wondered as he cautiously crept through the maze of beds, trunks, discarded clothing, games, books, and all of the other items which belonged to the Gryffindor boys in their fifth years at Hogwarts. Apparently, the house elves had been deterred from their cleaning by his tossing and turning. He had heard them come sometimes as he lay silently wide awake; he had never spoken to them and they had never acknowledged him if they had noticed his wakefulness. As lonely as that had made him feel, it made him feel lonelier still to think of them darting away at the sound of his heavy sighs and kicks at his blankets.

In the common room, the fire was still going decently strong, a welcome find as the nights were still cold and the Gryffindor tower seemed draftier each year. Harry lifted his things from the end table in the corner where he, Ron, and Hermione had worked until about midnight in a calm silence that had managed to be both cheerful but also checked. When he sat down on the sofa before the fire, though, he did not even bother to light the candles on the chest that served as a table for this location. His books slid off of his lap and into the cracks between the cushions as he stared into the fire, letting his mind go blank for a little bit. The sensation he had was of someone actually lifting an eraser like the ones his teachers had used in school when he lived with the Dursleys—erasers like the ones he'd often had to clap together behind the school building during detentions garnered because of things Dudley Dursley had done and then blamed on Harry. It was a calming image now, with a draft at his back making him consciously appreciative of the warmth flowing from the fire place. He even forgot to vainly hope for an appearance of Sirius's disembodied head between the flames. It had been so long since that hope had had any chance of fulfillment, anyway.

"Harry? Is that you? What are you doing up?"

Harry jerked his head around. He'd nearly dozed off in his reverie of erasers and slates made blank; the voice from behind him startled him so much he could not even immediately match it with a face. Through the relative darkness beyond the light of the fire there emerged the thin frame of Neville's body, and as Harry peered, Neville's face came into focus, too. Harry offered him a smile, simultaneously relieved and disappointed because the sleep which had seemed so near mere seconds ago would be unlikely to return soon.

Neville sometimes—not frequently, but sometimes—joined him during his late night visits to the common room. Harry had never asked after Neville's reasons for sleeplessness, and Neville repaid this small courtesy in kind. Instead, they would talk of classes, professors, the development of Neville's work in the greenhouses and Harry's work with Professor Snape learning to block the impositions of other minds upon his own. Sometimes they would make toast in the fire or just sit in companionable silence doing some reading or playing Wizarding Chess, though Neville did not seem to much enjoy this last activity. Neville's presence in the common room during these long, despondent nights was something Harry had come to value very much; all in all, he had to admit that while Ron and Hermione were his best friends in the daylit hours, Neville had managed to unassumingly become his greatest source of comfort and favored diversion late at night.

'And what is the meaning of that?' Harry asked himself as he scooped up his things from between the sofa cushions so that Neville would have room to sit comfortably. 'Just don't worry about it tonight.'

"It's me, Neville. How's it going?"

Neville flopped down beside Harry after carefully placing his own stack of Transfiguration books on the chest in front of the fireplace. Both boys wore the same white and blue pin striped pajamas, though Neville's fit him more snugly than Harry's did, and Neville's hair was more neatly combed back than Harry's ever was let alone after two hours of rolling useless around in bed.

"It's going just swell. This Transfiguration essay is killing me, and Gran is sending me so many owls every single day that it'll take me a full weekend just to catch up on the news that's still relevant. I can't even imagine when I'll find the time to reply. I don't much expect she expects me to reply, though, right? No person could expect replies to so many letters, I mean..."

Harry leaned his head back so that he could keep Neville in his line of sight while his eye-lids drooped and the sound of Neville's meandering complaints—none of them, the unspoken understanding seemed to be, connected to the real reasons Neville was in the common room at two o'clock in the morning—drifted through his own thoughts. The sound of Neville's voice filled his mind gradually until this silly litany—I'm sick of toast for snacks; I've lost my pocket money for better snacks this weekend; what're your plans for Hogsmeade; can I take along with you guys; oh, I'd better not; will Hermione be going; of course she will be—was all that Harry could focus on.

'This is good,' he thought, a slow, faint smile inching across his face. 'This is what I needed after the disasters of today.'

That thought dispelled the sense of comfort that had been successfully enveloping him thus far, however. 'Disasters. People are dying everywhere and here I sit pretending to have experienced a disaster today. Everyone I care about who was alive and well this morning is still alive and well, and here I sit...' Harry felt wrapped now in an indulgent self-disgust, and the indulgence of it all made him still more disgusted. It was a vicious circle.

Neville had stopped talking and was staring at him now with something in his gaze that might have been fear or might have been worry. "Harry? Are you alright?"

'I can't even sit on the couch and listen to talk designed to be meaningless without making a sad sack spectacle of myself,' he thought, and he could feel his face distort into what had to be a singularly unattractive grimace. "I'm fine" came out sounding like a snarl, and then, his disgust and repulsion and terror at his own awfulness climaxing, he surprised himself as much as he surprised Neville by beginning to cry.

Being raised as an orphan by a family who cared not a lick for him, Harry was quite used to crying; he was not used, however, to crying in front of other human beings. Once, he had cried before Professor Dumbledore, when Dumbledore had visited him in the hospital wing following his first encounter with Voldemort. He had cried, too, when Ron's mother had circled him with her arms and called him her son. Hermione and Ron had looked on in understanding when he had cried when he had finally fully realized Cedric Diggory's death was not a part of the games and would not be undone. But never had he broken down in front of someone who was not aware of the reasons for his tears; still, he found that tonight he could not stop himself.

To Neville's credit, he did not run away as Harry might have done had their roles been reversed (this thought made Harry cry harder). He did not go off to fetch Ron or Hermione or someone else who could perhaps be seen as more responsible for Harry's well being. He did demand answers to the questions which hung in the air between them; he did not attempt to touch Harry or alter the space in any way. His look became less fearful, though, as he continued to stare calmly at Harry, and his eyes seemed to become warmer and something like understanding filled them slowly during the quarter of an hour, perhaps slightly more, that Harry crouched on the couch crying.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the ordeal was over. Harry felt fine. He even felt like he could sleep. "I think I can sleep now," he told Neville, and when Neville nodded he stood and let himself be guided back up the stairs to the dormitory and to his bed which had been straightened by the house elves who had quickly done their work in his absence.

"I'll just sit with you a second until I can sleep, too," Neville said, and Harry felt that this was so expected that he did not question it but merely made sure, as he crawled between the sheets, that he arranged his legs in such a way to allow Neville room to sit comfortably on the edge of the bed.

"Sorry, mate," he muttered. Neville removed his glasses from his face which was already buried in the pillows; he could practically see sleep—some figureless, abstract shape in his mind's eye—beckoning him, and he knew it was coming no matter what action he might commit or thought he might think. Neville seemed to sense this, too, because as he placed Harry's glasses on the bedside table he whispered, so softly Harry would have missed it if his mind had not been so completely calm, "I love you."

Harry heard the words but sleep was too close, too powerful to allow him to react even subconsciously. His eyes were closed and they would not open; his thoughts were at ease and would not bestir themselves until morning. He did not feel the pressure of Neville standing to return to his own bed. He did feel anything until the sun broke through his curtains the next morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

** otherworldly, yet flesh and bone**

The sun crossed the horizon early that morning, much earlier than Harry needed to wake in order to catch the tail end of breakfast. Knowing this, and experiencing the nagging sensation that there was something which demanded his attention yet could also wait and probably _should_ wait, Harry lazily pulled a pillow from beneath his head and placed it firmly over his eyes. He had slept well the night before, better than he had slept in quite some time actually, and he did not really need these extra minutes the way he normally felt that he did. He justified the choice, without really thinking hard about it because he was still mostly asleep, by thinking that he would probably not sleep so well again and should capitalize on the opportunity while he still could.

But he had been write: he would not sleep so well again, at least not this morning. Sleep did come nearly the instant the pillow was in place across his face, but it was an uneasy sleep containing a disconcerting dream of a sort he had never had before. In this dream, he seemed to be standing beneath a stone pavilion which was nearly as large as the Great Hall of Hogwarts. The stones were made of solid marble and looked expensively solid, valuably permanent; outside of the stones the ground was layered in a thick sheet of un-marred snow that glittered in the sunlight though the air did not seem to be at all cold. Dark blue veins ran through the marble stones, each capping off at an enormous flourishing cerulean poinsettia which seemed to be growing from the rafters of the pavilion. Harry knew in his dream that he had never seen anything at all like this, and, indeed, he wondered if such a thing were even possible in the natural world. 'I must be in the non-natural world, then,' he thought. 'I must be in the magical world.'

Around him milled what seemed to be hundreds of men and women and children, all dressed in rich clothing which seemed to flow and float around them in impossibly thin folds of velvet reds and blues and browns and yellows and greens and purples. Every color of the rainbow was represented in the attire of these people whose skin shimmered in opaquely cream, earthly tan, and striking burnt amber shades. Every woman's hair was studded in precious jewels; every man wore gems of the same sort around all of their fingers; children moved encased in little auras of glimmering butterflies or twinkling fireflies. Harry wondered briefly if he had gone to Heaven, and then he wondered if Heaven even existed in the magical world. 'Funny, I've never even thought to ask,' he mused, but even here the question seemed only one of passing fancy; whatever answer he might have been given in that moment, to any question at all that it may have occurred to him to ask, would have seemed gleefully inconsequential.

No one seemed for a great while to notice Harry standing there. This was fine with Harry. He knew from his times delving into Dumbledore's Pensieve that it was fine to linger in places without being recognized in any way. Much could be learned, and a great deal more experienced, than if one had to be constantly making conversation and darting here and there to avoid being in the way of someone more important than oneself. As during the times when Harry had entered into Dumbledore's memories, he felt sure that everyone here was more important than himself. It was nice just to be and bear witness as these seemingly charmed men and women, boys and girls, glided smoothly around him smiling and laughing and exchanging kisses and shoulder squeezes. Everyone seemed to be enjoying his- or herself immensely, and Harry felt himself enjoying himself increasingly more as time went on.

He felt a hand clench gently around his own shoulder. This jarred him. In Dumbledore's memories, no one had been able to touch him. All of the people of memory had, rather, moved smoothly through him as though he were not there at all. 'So, I'm not in a memory, then,' he thought, but that was all he thought before he moved his head to get a look at the man to whom the hand on his shoulder belonged. He felt no panic, no anxiety, no fear at all at this turn of events. It seemed as natural as anything to him that he should be here, unnoticed by any save this man, and that this man could only have kind and generous intentions.

The man who had so casually claimed his shoulder was a tall man, clad in red and golden furs that looked silky to the touch, and freshly clean as though they had never served any other purpose but to wrap snugly around this man's frame and keep him warm and regal looking. Red fur trimmed his silver linen tunic, and golden furs with streaks of bronze composed the cape that draped as though molded from plastic around his shoulders and down his back. Dark linen pants and velvety brown leather boots completed the ensemble, but it was his face which truly caught Harry's attention and arrested his gaze by prompting the strongest feeling of giddy surprise which he had felt since arriving here in this magical place that seemed to only allow for such feelings of giddy surprise at each and every aspect of it.

This man had a face dark in complexion but open, so completely open that just a glance at it made Harry feel as though he had access to a deeper part of the man's soul than could be got at in most people only after years of searching. Each feature was finely structured to create this appearance of openness—nothing on this man's face seemed to crowd or avoid the other parts, but each component feature nestled exactly where it should. The nose was prominent but not pointed nor overly snubbed. The chin was directed at exactly the right angle outward. The cheekbones were high but not cavernous; the eyebrows protruded thoughtfully but not menacingly. The man's eyes were golden jewels. They reminded Harry slightly of the eyes of a cat, burning yellow with flecks of green that clashed with the light in a playful yet strongly emotive fashion. This man's eyes went deeper than the eyes of any cat Harry had ever seen, though; they did seem to even need to pierce or burn one to see far into one's mind, and they granted access to the man's inner being just as effortlessly.

Finally, there was the man's hair. It hung thick and burning red around his face, dangling tantalizingly just over his shoulders. Like the fur of his cape, it seemed to be molded, yet it was clearly too soft and pliant to be molded; it hung so smoothly, though, and so effortlessly kept it's shape. Normally, this would have reminded Harry of the unruliness of his own hair, but he was too full of a deeper sensation of having instantaneously connected with this man to care a whit about his own appearance. In the presence of this man, he felt that he, too, could be—maybe even had already become—perfect. Any detail that seemed to even gesture toward an objection to this conclusion could immediately be disregarded as irrelevant, probably false.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Harry stretched out a hand and ran it down this man's head just as he would have pet Crookshank's spine or tried out the feeling of a particularly nice looking piece of expensive silk in the gown shop in Diagon Alley. The action seemed natural, and the man smiled in response, parting his full pink lips to reveal two lines of white and even teeth.

_Hello, Harry_, he said. Of course the man knew Harry's name. Harry felt sure that he knew everything, or that what this man did not know he would invent and thus make true.

_Hello_, he said in response. He realized, when he did not feel his own lips move, that they were not exchanging actual words but were communicating by some other means. 'We're talking in our heads,' he thought. In the real world, this would have terrified him because it would have reminded him of Voldemort's invasions into his thoughts and memories or, nearly as horrible, Snape's invasions. This exchange between him and this man seemed to be different, though: the man could not read his thoughts by probing where Harry did not want him (though Harry doubted there was any part of his mind where this man would not be welcome). This man seemed only to access, whether he wanted to or not, those blips which Harry had somehow known exactly how to send directly to him.

_My name is Gawain_, the man told Harry. But of course he communicated this without telling; it seemed to Harry more like showing with words and colors and light and feeling than like the ordinary sort of telling which used words alone. This was definitely more pleasant, more all-encompassing and thus more accurate and trustworthy. Indeed, Harry felt that he could trust Gawain completely in absolutely everything.

_Hi, Gawain. How did you know my name?_ Harry asked, and again the man smiled broadly and warmly.

_I knew when I saw you. I knew I was seeing Harry Potter, and I knew that we should be friends. Good friends._

Before Harry could put together a reply to this unexpected answer (though really, what sort of answer could he have been expected to such a magical series of events? Even within the magical world this was something out of the ordinary, something truly special, he felt.), Gawain added, _I can see you because I am of royal blood in this court. I and my uncle alone control who can enter here, and what they may see and do, and who may see them and address themselves to them._

_So why me?_ Harry shot back immediately. He hoped he didn't seem rude; the shortest of glances at Gawain's face assured him that he did not.

_Because you need help. You are very important, not here, but someplace near enough. And you will accomplish all you seek to do and all you must do, thought you may not seek to do it. My uncle and I felt, though, that in order for this prophesy—for we, too, have heard the prophesy—to come true, you needed a nudge. You needed to be shown all that is possible and good, and you needed to see some of what you are protecting and serving though you will never come here in the flesh._

Now Harry paused to reflect. He was still not entirely certain about who Gawain was, though looking at him he felt that he had access to all of those abstract qualities which are the most crucial to understanding any person anyway. Who was this uncle of which Gawain spoke, though? And where was here? How near were they to Hogwarts? What prophesy? What did he have to do? How was any of this supposed to help him do it?

Gawain seemed to know the flood of questions rushing through Harry, and he turned toward him one more warm smile that seemed to contain all of the love and understanding Harry had desired over the past fifteen years of his life. _Think on what I have said, and we will bring you back soon. We have faith in you, Harry, and we are eagerly awaiting the terrific things that you will do._

'What terrific things? Why can't I stay here with you?' As these thoughts were forming, Harry realized that they were not being communicated to this man, this Gawain who seemed to have all of the answers and, if only they could talk for longer, all of the assurances Harry had been looking for. Rather, these thoughts were stuck where they were formed, within his own head, and instead of Gawain's smile he was seeing the pitch black of the insides of his eye lids. The tinkling music he had not even consciously recognized as playing all throughout the dream pavilion was gone, too. Replacing it was the sound of Ron's voice, high pitched in the panic that overtook him whenever there was the threat that breakfast would be missed.

'I've over-slept. I'm awake, and I'm late, and there are things that need doing, right now...' A dozen thoughts swarmed Harry, and the peaceful feeling that had reigned throughout his dream was replaced by a sick dread at the thought of having to rouse himself fully from sleep and confront a day that would likely be as dull and frantic and disappointing as the last several days had been. Harry groaned and forced himself to open his eyes.

"By the cross of the rood, Harry, get _up_!" Ron exclaimed, throwing open the curtains around Harry's bed to fully admit the rays of sun which had already been creeping through the gaps. It was awful.

"By the what of the what?" Harry mumbled, sitting up and giving his hair a tousle that would have to pass for a wash and a combing at least until the break before lunch. Ron threw Harry's clothes at him and retreated to his own corner of the dormitory to finish pulling on his own shirt and socks.

"The cross of the rood. It's a slang slur Hermione taught me yesterday. It's a Muggle thing, apparently, and very bad, I guess. Probably not so bad if she was willing to say it. Hurry up!"

With one hand Harry began to unbutton his pajamas while the other hand reached for his glasses on the nightstand. His glasses were neatly folded; usually he just tossed them down before going to bed so that they lay crookedly open and ready to be shoved back on in the morning rush. 'Weird,' he thought, and then he remembered. Last night, he'd been unable to sleep. He'd gone to the common room, he'd talked with Neville, and then—oh God. And then...

Harry sat still on the edge of his bed, outwardly frozen but collected. Inside all was panic and confusion and an ardent urge to do _something_, _immediately_, but he had no notion of what that something might or could be.

He'd cried. He'd cried for a long time and there had been no reason to. And then Neville had taken him by the arm, tenderly as though he'd break if pushed too hard, and Neville had led him to bed, had let him lead his hot and wet cheek against the smooth cool fabric of his shoulder. And then Neville had said... No, then Neville had used his warm and soft and safe fingers to take off Harry's glasses and then, presumably, to fold them so they would come to none of the usual harm that seemed to befall Harry's glasses whatever he tried, and then... Yes, and _then_... Neville had told him he loved him.

"Harry! Mate, seriously, we have five minutes until breakfast is over! What are you even _doing_?" Ron was clearly exasperated, but Harry had no words or thoughts to spare on this. Neville had told him he loved him, and then he had slept, and he had dreamed no dreams until the dream of Gawain and his court that was more magical and safe and promising than even Hogwarts seemed anymore.

"I," Harry muttered, but he found himself unable to continue. He tried again. "I..."

"Mate, I'm sorry, but I'm starving, and I can't sit through Potions without breakfast. I'll grab you some toast and see you in twenty, okay? Get dressed!"

These words were thrown over Ron's shoulder as he bustled from the dormitory. Faintly, Harry could hear the clatters and thunks of Ron rushing down the stairs and through the common room below. Finally silence fell as Ron made it at last through the portrait of the Fat Lady who for once did not raise a ruckus at being exited in such a hurried and graceless fashion.

"I..." Harry tried again, though no one was around to hear him. Everyone would be finishing breakfast in the Great Hall or already on their way to class. Hermione was likely already setting up her cauldron in the Potions dungeon; perhaps she'd even finished and moved on to setting up Harry's and Ron's cauldrons as she grudgingly did whenever they appeared late at breakfast.

"I..."

And what would Neville be doing? He always woke with the dawn, no matter how late he'd stayed up the night before. He was a slow and careful dresser, and usually took some time before breakfast even officially began to catch up on homework in the common room, or he would wander down to the greenhouses to check on his latest plant or run some ideas past Professor Sprout before she had to prepare her first lesson. Then, Neville would usually eat quickly and speed off to class, particularly when it was Potions first, because Neville hated being late to Potions. Professor Snape scared him even more than Snape scared everyone who wasn't in Slytherin.

So Neville, who last night had told Harry that he loved him, would now be sitting in Potions, probably exchanging discreet eye rolls with Hermione over his and Ron's tardiness.

"I..."

Neville would not be helping Hermione to set up his cauldron, though. He was too scared of Snape's wrath should Snape catch him helping the famous Boy-Who-Lived to get even further ahead. That was how Snape thought of him still, even after doing lessons together for so many months and even after spending countless hours probing Harry's mind.

But Neville had helped him last night. Harry was certain that his night of sleep and his dream of Gawain would not have happened without Neville's help, humble thought it had been.

"I..."

Harry threw himself back down on his bed and again pulled his pillow over his face.

"I love you, too," he whispered into the folds of the pillowcase, confident that no one would hear because he could not even hear himself. "I do. I do; I love you, too. My God."


	4. Chapter 4

Woah, so many plot-twists in this chapter! Even I was surprised. Leave me a review letting me know what you think, maybe?

**Chapter Four**

** search for me truly, sir, until I am found**

Breakfast was over and Potions nearly half way through before Harry felt composed enough to raise his head from between the pillows and take his first complete breath in an hour or more. Around him utter silence reigned; it didn't even sound like there was anyone in the common room. It must be lovely weather outside, because seventh years had their break first thing in the morning and usually they could be heard groaning over any number of ailments which tended to range from an essay incomplete but soon due to a rumbling stomach because breakfast had been missed to confusion over a vaguely worded owl received that morning from a significant other at another school. Today, though, it sounded like the common room as well as the fifth year boys' dormitory was deserted.

'Just as well,' Harry thought as he began to put on the clothing Ron had thrown at him...when? Earlier that morning. It seemed like a full day had passed since he had first laid his head down with the sudden memory of last night's conversation with Neville. If one could even call it a conversation. Crying without explanation while a friend watched wordlessly did not exactly a discourse make. Harry did feel much calmer about the whole thing, now, though. He was able to tell himself that the events of the previous night were not really as disastrous as they had seemed even a short while ago.

Doubtless, Neville had just been being kind. Was that not what Neville was nearly always wont to do? He might have been middling craven and shier than most, but Neville was always, unfailingly kind, and unlike most students at Hogwarts he had a special capacity for empathy. It was, Harry mused as he ran a comb uselessly through his hair, what made Neville so good at the things at which Neville was good: Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, aiding Hermione in her otherwise single-handed crusade on behalf of the castle's house elves, breaking up fights in the common room when they did happen, which was seldom. Neville could always see things from another person's perspective and, what was more, Neville could navigate seemingly effortlessly the space between how that other person felt and how that person wished he or she could be feeling at the moment. He always tried very hard to make the two mental states fuse when he could.

'So...right. That was it,' Harry thought. Harry had cried last night because he'd felt isolated and unloved and, worst of all, incapable of loving. Neville had sensed that and, characteristically, said the only words that could be said to alleviate all of the muddled feelings that had surged their way through Harry's eyes and all down his face on the common room sofa in the middle of the night. Neville had been being kind, and he had been successful in returning to Harry the sense that he could and did love his friends, dearly, for the aide they were able to give him when they were able to give it. Now that Thursday had finally and truly begun in earnest, he was free from the negative feelings of yesterday to let gratitude rush through him and, too, to let his focus shift to other things, things outside of himself.

'Such as the mess of pain I'm about to be in for missing Potions,' he thought wryly. There was nothing to be done about it now, though, except to prepare a suitable excuse which Ron would hopefully back him up in and which would most likely fail anyway, and to spend this unexpected free time working on his Transfiguration essay in the peaceful silence of a well-lit common room. For the first time in weeks—perhaps months—Harry felt genuinely well rested and his mind seemed clear of the sort of fog and needless worry that usually made all of the tasks set to him during his waking hours seem more arduous than they needed to be.

His books were still in the common room where he'd left them last night, and after a quick glance in the mirror by the dormitory door he made his way down the stairs. For the zillioneth time in his life he wished his hair would lay flat, just once, for just one hour even. Like Gawain's hair did, even with the unnaturally warm breeze blowing through the pavilion in the snow. That would have made Harry—

Harry paused mid-step and nearly toppled down the stairs. Gawain. In the rush of memories and mental sorting regarding Neville and their exchange the previous evening, Harry had somehow forgotten about his early morning dream and the conversation he'd had with the super-magical man who called himself Gawain. Standing in the stairwell with one foot poised in mid air, ready to continue helping Harry down the stairs and on to the completion of tasks which desperately needed completing if this weekend was to be enjoyed on any level, Harry nearly gasped with the effect of the events of the dream pouring back into his consciousness. The man in his dreams had seemed to know him, which was not uncommon for dreams really; the man had seemed to know, too, a great deal of things about Harry's future as well as his past and his current deepest hid secrets.

'Well, Neville knew those secrets last night, too,' Harry thought, but he could not push aside the sense that there was still something odd, perhaps even something off, about the kindness he had benefited from while standing in the dream-world of Gawain's other-worldly court. Neville had seemed to know the gist of Harry's feelings, but he hadn't known specifics. Gawain had said just enough to suggest that every detail of Harry's past, present, and future were already known to him.

Too, there was the feeling of the court itself, so much like a Penseive but not quite the same. That was odd. Even though he had been almost immersed in the Wizarding world, save for a few lonely summers between his first few years at Hogwarts, there were still so many things Harry didn't know about what was usual or acceptable or perhaps rare but still normal within the magical community. Normally he asked Ron or Neville or Seamus about these things when they came up—Hell, even Hermione knew more than he did about many of these things. Some occurances, though, such as his discovery that he, and precious few others, had the ability to communicate with snakes using Parseltongue, he had never felt quite comfortable discussing with his friends. Things like his Parseltongue ability or the invasions Voldemort had made into his mind were things that he tended to keep to himself as long as possible and then discuss first with his God-father Sirius, Lupin, or even Dumbledore when the situation became serious enough to warrant it. Sirius was unavailable to him at the moment though, as was Lupin, at least until the weekend. Dumbledore had been at the castle at least as of last night; Harry had seen him make an increasingly rare appearance in the Great Hall during dinner. Was this strange dream he had had worth bothering Dumbledore for? Probably not.

Yet, as Harry attempted to settled down in an armchair to work on his Transfiguration essay, he was unable to push the dream and the various possible implications of it—some good, some bad—from his mind. The clarity he had felt until half way down the staircase was entirely gone; he could not help but fret over the possibility that danger lay at the heart of the warmth the dream had seemed to contain while he also nurtured a quiet hope that Gawain would reappear the next time he closed his eyes.

His essay lay forgotten across his lap as he stared out of the window running back and forth through the dream until the shouts of people bustling outside the portrait of the Fat Lady signaled that the first class of the day was finished. He had made no progress with his homework, had failed to come up with any sort of explanation to excuse his absence in Potions that morning, and he was no closer to having a grasp on what the dream might possibly mean. 'An utterly wasted morning,' he chided himself as Hermione and Neville came clambering through the portrait and into the common room. He did his best to look slightly ill.

"Hey guys," he said when it became clear that they fully intended to engage him in conversation. "What'd I miss?"

""Miss, Harry? You missed everything! We had to do the next several steps in our Developing Potions, and I hate to be the one to tell you, but Ron thoroughly ruined yours. The two of you will have to start all over!"

Hermione threw herself down in the arm chair next to Harry's. She certainly did not look as though she were hating to be the bearer of bad news; her face was flushed with happiness as it had been yesterday, though there was certainly no wind or sunshine in the common room. In fact, the weather outside the window seemed to be taking a turn for the worse as the clouds drifting across the sky appeared a tinge darker every time he took another look. Neville crouched on the arm of Hermione's chair; he also looked more flushed than usual, and though Harry could not be certain of this, he seemed to be avoiding Harry's gaze at all costs. He mumbled something about Ron having not been strictly at fault while Hermione continued to list all of the things, academic, social, and disciplinary in nature, that Harry had missed during that morning's lesson.

"I woke up with a bit of fever," he finally said to stem the stream of potion characteristics, pointed comments made by Millicent about Pansy's new dress robes, stirring techniques, points lost from Gryffindor, and other things that Harry normally may have found interesting but which he just could not pay attention to at the moment. "I'm feeling better now, though, so I'll just stop by the dungeons after lunch and make my apologies."

"Make your apologies? I suppose that would be a nice gesture, not that such things matter with Snape, but he's already decided on your punishment. Malfoy was practically in hysterics about it. You and Ron have to stay in the castle on Saturday and copy out some ancient text Snape's got on magical remedies for common magical ailments. It actually sounds a bit fascinating to me, actually. Ron's late getting back because he's still trying to get out of, though. Hopefully he won't make things worse for either of you."

Harry groaned because he knew that was the expected reaction to news that he would have to miss a rare Hogsmeade adventure. It took him a few moments to fully realize that this meant there would be no way at all that he would see Lupin this weekend, and when that sunk in he groaned again. Neville darted a glance in his direction before quickly returning his eyes back to an extremely intense study of a bit of leaf and dirt stuck to the toe of his left shoe.

Ron suddenly appeared at the edge of the common room, his face red with rage as he crossed over to join them. "You!" he screamed while he was still half way across the room. "Harry! Where _were_ you? You know I can't do the half quarter counter-clockwise turn while adjusting the heat all on my own! Now we're missing Hogsmeade _and_ any chance of relaxation on Sunday!"

Hermione had been right; Ron had made things worse. Harry didn't care at all about Sunday, though, and he allowed himself to be washed with self-pity as he contemplated the fact that it could be months now before he'd be able to talk freely with Lupin. Ron continued to rant for quite some time while Hermione alternately scolded and tried, in her own way, to console him with reminders that this would be a good learning opportunity and in that way much better than just copying any old lines. Harry was absently aware of Neville's continued silence throughout this exchange, and was just beginning to re-consider his previous idea of going to Dumbledore about this dream, since talking to Lupin was now entirely out of the question, when it was time for all four of them to gather their things and head to History of Magic.

As he shuffled along in the back of the group headed to the classroom where the ghostly Professor Binns was doubtless already waiting, Harry wondered if his academic record for the day could really get any worse by missing another class in which the professor wasn't even there in body himself. Deciding that things couldn't be any worse for him than they already were, Harry dashed off in the opposite direction before any one in the group could notice his absence.

He had decided to try to arrange a meeting with Dumbledore even if he wouldn't be able to talk to him at just that moment. Past experience had taught him that things like his dream, even if harmless, were better addressed sooner rather than later because, given the state of the Wizarding—and the Muggle—world, anything out of the ordinary had to be treated as suspect until the root cause could be determined. And if the dream was normal, or just, as was likely, a peculiar effect of Harry's subconscious given the stress and sleep deprivation he'd lately been experiencing, at least that would be one small load off of his mind. Maybe he'd even be able to finish that nagging Transfiguration essay tonight.

And so Harry made his way across the castle toward the tower where Dumbledore's office was located. The last time he had been there, near the beginning of the term when he had been charged by Lupin to deliver a message not considered safe to put into writing, the password had been "Toffee Eclair," but Harry couldn't be sure that that hadn't changed. Witches and wizards didn't seem to have secretaries like Muggles did; as Harry hurried through the stragglers winding their ways to class, he wondered how he would even go about setting up a meeting with Dumbledore in advance. He'd always just barged in hoping for an audience, as he was doing now. What would he do if Dumbledore weren't there? What would he ever do if Dumbledore one day failed to be found sitting serenely behind the wide desk at the top of his tower, studying one of his arcane magical devices or leafing through a brittley fragile and aged text or speaking in calm tones with some important person?

"Toffee Eclair" he announced to the gargoyle which guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. By the grace of God, the password worked, and he pushed from his mind his worries about one day having to deal with any kind of problem without the security of Dumbledore's presence if not his direct audience. Climbing the stairs, he concentrated instead on organizing his thoughts so that, while he would still be bursting in unannounced, he at least would not be forced to babble like a madman to communicate his reasons for being there.

"Harry? To what may I owe this wholly unexpected pleasure?"

Before he'd even reached the top of the stairs, Dumbledore's voice came lilting toward him from the professor's position standing near the tray on which Fawkes the phoenix was looking rather terribly under the weather. Dumbledore's long spindly fingers were caressing the few feathers remaining on Fawkes's thin frame and looks of wry contemplation shaped the faces of both man and bird. Harry paused at the landing, hesitant at first to interrupt this moment though he knew, because Dumbledore had taught him, that the molting of a phoenix ought not to be treated as an occasion for sadness but, rather, as one for contemplation of the wonders of nature and the beauty in all things. It did not take long, though, for Dumbledore to turn his piercing stare toward Harry in expectation of an answer to his question, and Harry at last moved his feet a few paces into the office.

"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt you," he began, but Dumbledore waved a thin hand through to air to signal that Harry was not interrupting anything. Harry knew this to be untrue, though, so he rushed on, forgetting the speech he had prepared in his hurry towards Dumbledore's office.

"I—I'm not sure if I—maybe I should go, sir. It's just that, uh, I had this dream last night that seemed weird, and I—um..." Harry faltered completely. This visit and the feelings that had occasioned it seemed more silly and irrelevant with each word that fell from his lips. He never should have come, he thought. And if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Dumbledore was reading his mind because at that same instant Dumbledore silenced his ramblings by holding up that same hand which had just moments ago been prompting him to speak, and he said, "You should be in, ah, History of Magic with Professor Binns during this time, am I correct?"

Harry blushed a bit and nodded.

"So," Dumbledore continued, moving from Fawkes's stand to the seat behind his desk, "something seemed pressing enough to urge you here despite the risk of losing points for your house and, of course, the risk of lost knowledge."

'How does he have my schedule memorized like that?' Harry thought. Outwardly, he only shrugged.

"If it was indeed so pressing, which harbor no doubt against it's being, then tell me, Harry. At the very worst, it will turn out to not matter so much, and you'll be able to join your classmates before the good Professor Binns has had a chance to notice your absence."

With that, a kindly smile, and a gesture toward the seat in front of his desk with the implication that Harry should sit, Dumbledore leaned back carefully in his own chair and waited for Harry to begin.

"Right. Yeah. Well, like I said I had a dream last night. Not like one of the dreams where Voldemort comes to me, but more like when I'm in your Pensieve. Except very happy. It was a very happy dream." Harry blushed again realizing that he had somewhat implied that Professor Dumbledore's memories weren't such happy ones. Dumbledore simply nodded without changing his expression though. Of course Dumbledore wouldn't share with Harry his happiest memories; those were none of Harry's business.

"Um, so, it was very happy. I felt happier than I've felt in a long time, sir, to be, um, honest. And then this man showed up and even though no one else could see me or touch me, just like in the Pensieve, this man could. And he knew my name, and he knew something about some prophesy, and he seemed to understand things about me and what I had to do and how I felt about it, and..." Harry realized he was rambling again. He glanced at Dumbledore to try to gauge his reaction to the story thus far.

Dumbledore had sat up a bit but he did not look worried, exactly. He looked more curious than anything. "I see," he said after a minute or two of silence had passed. "What did this man look like?"

Harry briefly described the man as well as he was able, though words seemed terribly insufficient to the task of doing justice to this otherworldly man's appearance.

Dumbledore nodded again. "And tell me, Harry. Were you in a marble pavilion?"

Slightly taken aback, Harry answered yes, adding, "It was warm there even though there was snow on the ground!" because that seemed important somehow.

Dumbledore's face broke into a smile. Once more, he nodded, and then several more minutes passed as he gazed at Harry with something like a satisfied wonder illuminating his expression. Finally, he spoke, saying simply, "I was right about you."

Harry stared blankly. Was his dream important? Was there anything about it that he should be worrying about? How had Dumbledore known about the pavilion? He wanted answers to _his_ questions, not the apparently unspoken ones Dumbledore had been harboring.

"Everyone is always quick to notice those pieces of your father in you, Harry, but I believe there is more of your mother in you than most people realize."

"I have her eyes," Harry replied quickly before he realized that that was probably not what Dumbledore meant.

"Yes, yes, her eyes. There was, it goes without saying, more to her than her eyes, and those parts of her which were most precious and secret seem to be a part of you, too."

There was another long period of silence while the two sat across the desk staring at each other, Dumbledore in a happy satisfaction and Harry in utter bewilderment.

"Lilly Evans—pardon me, your mother, had dreams like yours, Harry. Dreams in which she could make contact, only briefly, only for short periods of time, and mostly not at will, with other universes. With other magical people from other worlds and times. She, too, often visited the court of Sir Arthur. Though she usually spoke with Guinevere, from what she told me. She would have been delighted to have been acknowledged by Sir Gawain as you have been. She would be so proud of you."

It took several moments for this information to sink in. As it did, hundreds of questions sprouted in Harry's mind, and he could hardly hold himself back from attempting to ask all of them at once. He tried to be selective.

"Other universes?" he asked. "Can loads of people do this? What do you mean by 'mostly not at will'?"

Dumbledore smiled again and leaned his head to the side, stroking his beard as he was wont to do while he decided how much of Harry's curiosity to indulge. His eyes twinkled.

"Yes, other universes," he said at last. "Now that the dreams have begun, you're sure to learn more about them as time goes on, so I won't ruin any of the surprises you have in store. In response to your second question, the answer, sadly, is no. It is a rare gift, most often passed down through a mother to her children but not always. Some people acquire the gift even without having any known relative living or dead who were able to do the same thing." Dumbledore stood. "And my response to your third question is the same as to your first. So, I think it is time now for you to be returning to class. I'm sure we will talk again soon as you learn more."

Harry stood, knowing that it was useless to protest. When Dumbledore opened his office door for him, though, he couldn't resist turning to ask one final question, the question that had plagued his mind until he'd decided to make this impromptu visit in the first place.

"Sir, please, one more thing. Should I be worried? About these dreams, I mean?"

Dumbledore shook his head, sharing with Harry one last thoughtful look. "No, Harry. These dreams are a treasure. Unlike so many things happening all around you every day, these dreams are one thing you shall never need to worry about."

That was good enough for Harry who felt again the peaceful feeling he'd awoken with that morning as he strode down the hallway away from the Headmaster's tower. Doors began to open and students thronged the hallway with him, and the knowledge that he would not, in fact, have to return to class added an extra bit of joy.

He picked up his pace, in a hurry to get to the common room to tell Ron and Hermione this latest development. Ron would be eager for the story, and he imagined that Hermione would be just delighted that the first universe he'd gotten to experience had been straight from the Arthurian legends she'd been lately feeling so nostalgic about. His dreams could, he felt, help not only to dispell the angst and anxiety he'd been wallowing in lately; they would also serve as an olive branch to his friends, and they would help to bring the three of them back together again.

This possibility which had seemed so sure dissipated as soon as he entered the common room. There, he found Ron sulking red-faced and looking on the verge of tears. Before he had a chance to say anything to his friend, though, Harry spied from the corner of his eye the scene which surely was the source of Ron's current countenance. Hermione and Neville were seated together, extremely close, on the sofa before the fire, and they appeared to be kissing.


End file.
